Five Crosses Michael Carpenter Never Bore
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Michael had a difficult question to ask. And he didn't think he was going to like the answer. Mild slash, canon parallel AU.
1. Five Crosses

**Title**: Five Crosses Michael Carpenter Never Bore 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: Bookverse! Property of Jim Butcher & etc., not me. Alas.

**Summary**: _Michael had a difficult question to ask. And he didn't think he was going to like the answer_. Mild slash; 2600 words; canon-parallel AU.

**Fandom**: Dresden Files (novels)

**Notes**: Yuletide 2007 entry for catnap, prompt "Michael - would love a slash story with some hurt/comfort." Specific spoilers for Grave Peril, Death Masks, Proven Guilty, and White Night. Opens with a background character death.

* * *

i

"How's Charity? The baby?" Harry asked, voice full of concern.

Michael looked down, the weight of his choices over the last few days pulling at his spirit. "The baby-- they still don't know about him," he said, through the unshed tears thickening his throat. "They can't find out what's wrong. But he's started getting stronger; they think he might make it."

"Thank God. Is Charity--?"

He took a deep breath and looked up, studying the face of this man Charity had always said would be the death of him. Harry's eyes had always carried a faint shadow of regret, but the fighting and the deaths had added their toll in the last couple of weeks; he looked weary, and drawn, and lost. It was the face of a friend in need, not the face of a monster.

Through all the years they'd known one another, taking down foes larger than either could have dealt with alone, she'd maintained her defiant stance, withholding understanding. But in this one thing, he'd always brushed her concerns aside. Harry was dangerous, yes. But he was a good man, and they had wrought much good together. Michael would gladly give his life in the course of God's work; Charity had known that about him since the day they'd met. To fear that end, even if it came in the course of helping a friend, was irrational.

He hadn't anticipated that _she_ would give her life instead.

"She passed last night," he said, hoarsely. "I think-- she gave it all to save him."

Harry stiffened where he sat, mouth dropping open in shock. "Hells bells," he cursed, then flinched. "Sorry-- sorry. Michael--" He half-reached out, then dropped his hand as though the weight of the news were too much for him as well. "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "Your family--?"

"Father Forthill is with them. He's told the eldest, Molly and Daniel; I'll tell the younger ones myself when I see them." He didn't know what he was going to say to them, how he could make them understand what he couldn't yet grasp himself. But that was for later.

"You should go to them," Harry said, scrambling to push himself up from the floor. "I appreciate your staying here to guard me-- but they need you more."

"Not yet," Michael replied, heavily, grasping Harry's flailing hand to assist him to his feet. He'd thought about this, often, in the long hours of the night while Harry lay sleeping. His answer burned through him now, drying up his tears. He may have lost _Amoracchius_, but he was still the Fist of God-- the _mine_ in _Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord_.

"Not yet. Perhaps this is God's way of telling me it's time to put down the sword-- but not until this is all over. I will not let her death be for nothing."

Harry's grip tightened on Michael's hand. "It won't be," he said hoarsely.

Michael smiled grimly. "Because we'll stop them."

* * *

ii

Michael turned his turkey sandwich over in his hands, but found himself too nauseated to eat it. Deep tremors still shook the foundations of his muscles: they'd found Harry in time, but the strain of the hours beforehand, when he'd feared every moment that Harry would die before the Knights could reach him, and the fight itself still sapped at his strength.

He had a difficult question to ask. And he didn't think he was going to like the answer.  
"Harry," he said, finally. "I have to ask you for something. It's very difficult. And it's something that under normal circumstances I wouldn't even consider doing."

"Name it," Harry said immediately, between swallows of his own sandwich.

Michael met his eyes, seeing in them the reflection-- as he always did-- of the soul he'd seen, and felt so akin to, all those years ago. "Get out of this business," he urged his friend. "Get out of town for a few days. Or stay home. But get out of it. Please."

Harry blinked. "You mean, you don't want my help?"

"I want your safety," Michael replied, firmly. "You are in great danger."

"You're _kidding_," Harry blurted. "Michael, I'm in great danger at least twice a year. You know that; you've been there. What makes this time any different?"

"If we hadn't been there today--"

"Molly would have inherited the Beetle. So what? It's going to happen sooner or later," Harry said, with rising irritation. "Ask me to change the baby's diaper for you; ask me to bring Chinese instead of Pizza Spress next time I come over; ask me to pick up the laundry from Charity's mother on the way; these things I can do. But I am _not_ going to stop doing my job. Not even for you."

"You don't understand," Michael replied, wearily.

"It's the Denarian thing, isn't it?" Harry continued. "Because it comes from your side of the fence instead of mine?"

The rest of the conversation went much the same, to Michael's consternation, but not surprise. Harry was suspicious, and hurt; Michael worried, and defensive. By the time Harry left the church it was clear he wouldn't relent, and Michael, left behind, bowed his head in a pew, his thoughts in turmoil.

"This man is very important to you," Shiro observed, quietly.

Michael nodded, slowly. "He's been my friend for a long time. Especially since Charity--" He trailed off, unsure how to describe the last two years. "He comes over for dinner several times a week now, when he's not busy. He helps out around the house. He even helps the children with their homework; they love him."

"And you?" his mentor prompted him.

Michael snorted. Either Harry would die-- or one of the Knights would, in his place. The prophecy was clear. Whatever possibilities may have existed would die when he did.

"It hardly matters now, does it?"

"I disagree," Shiro said, after a long moment. "Now is when it matters most of all."

* * *

iii

Michael knocked at Harry's apartment door with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Harry had come over early, to help set up the cookout; he'd left early as well, without so much as a word of goodbye. Molly had seen him leave through the window and reported it; Sanya had added that he'd seemed pensive and strange when he saw him, moments before.

Michael hadn't needed their reports to know what had happened. He'd felt prompted, rather suddenly, to take the trash out in the middle of the party; he'd done so, curiously, wondering what the Lord intended for him to observe.

And then he'd seen the coin fly out the window, landing on the grass at both Harrys' feet.

He'd seen his friend slap his hand down to cover it, lest the toddler get his hands on it instead. Seen him pick the denarius up, and tuck it away in his pocket.

After all the warnings-- after all the battles-- after Shiro's sacrifice-- and despite Michael's best efforts to prevent it, Harry had taken up the coin of one of the Fallen.

It had been a scene from one of his worst nightmares, and had lingered in his thoughts long into the evening, while the party wound down, while he cleaned up the mess left behind, and after he put the children to bed. Why had God wanted him to see _that?_

Why had God let it _happen?_ Wasn't Charity's death enough of a burden for him to deal with?

"And God is faithful," he whispered to himself, an old, comforting verse from First Corinthians. "He will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it."

But Harry wasn't a Christian. He had a strong will-- but the Fallen were tenacious, and knew just how to offer what a man thought he needed. The coin would help Harry protect Chicago for a time, and those he cared for, but in the end it would destroy him. He had already turned over the keys to his soul; he just didn't know it yet. And his failure to tell Michael about it immediately hinted at the worst.

Shiro had been right. Michael should have told him while it still mattered. He'd just have to settle for telling him now, instead, while Sanya watched the children, and try to have faith that everything would somehow turn out for the best.

He knocked again, then pulled his hand back as the door opened. Harry stood framed in the gap, looking as weary as Michael had ever seen him; there was a heavy layer of dust on his clothing, and a thick, gray smear of something like concrete in his dark hair where he'd pushed it out of his way.

He looked about as troubled as Michael felt. And the moment his eyes sparked in recognition, something else flowered there, too: regret, dismay, guilt-- and something more. Hope blossomed in Michael's heart.

"Michael," Harry said, and swallowed heavily.

Michael stepped past him and unbuckled _Amoracchius_, setting it on the mantel. Susan's picture was eloquent in its absence, he noted; Shiro's cane held pride of place instead. Then he turned to Harry and opened his arms.

There was a long moment of silence; then the blank wall of Harry's expression slowly crumbled, and he shuffled over, leaning his long weight against Michael's broad shoulder.

"I wasn't going to tell you," he said, face buried against Michael's neck as he clung to him like a rock in a shifting sea. "I couldn't bear to."

"I know," Michael said, clinging back. "I know."

* * *

iv

Michael heard the front door open and close as he slung the plastic case containing _Amoracchius_ over his shoulder, and closed his eyes in relief. Harry had been away all day, first at a White Council meeting, then at his old apartment for some kind of working in the lab he still kept there, and then something to do with Molly's boyfriend; the messages on the answering machine had been filled with static. Michael had called Father Forthill to watch the children, but he hadn't wanted to leave without saying goodbye.

He saw his daughter first as he came down the stairs. Molly had been staying with her friends setting up some horror convention for a couple of weeks now, and he'd worried about what she might be inspired to do to herself by their example. The candy-colored hair had been alarming enough-- and he could see new, curling lines of tattoos at her neckline and throat. At least she hadn't gone for any obnoxious piercings yet; Harry had advised him to think of his own youth and thank God for small favors.

Standing next to her, Harry looked weary and a little disgruntled. His expression shifted to worry as he caught sight of the overnight bag in Michael's hand, and he lifted his eyebrows.

Michael dropped the bag and hugged Molly first, then turned and gripped Harry's shoulder.

"Business trip?" Harry frowned. "Any idea where to, or how long?"

Michael shook his head. "I'll know when I get there."

"Figures," Harry sighed. Then he turned to the girl beside him. "Look, Molly, would you mind--?"

She rolled her eyes. "Like I don't know what you guys are going to be doing," she said, affecting disgust. "I'll just go up to my room for a minute."

Michael followed her with his eyes, then turned back to Harry. "You said something about her boyfriend?"

"Yeah, she wanted to talk to me about him without Daddy One around. Don't worry; she's being smart about it. I'll be ferrying her back to the convention in a minute, but I thought we'd stop by and touch base first; it's been a long day."

"And about to be longer," Michael observed, wondering just what 'it' Molly was being smart about, and whether Daddy One really wanted Daddy Two to tell him. "How'd the meeting go?"

"About how I expected." Harry sighed. "They executed a kid for repeated violation of the Fourth Law. And Ebenezar as good as said that they held it here specifically as a warning to me. I wouldn't worry, but now that I'm teaching Molly... I'm concerned about the prejudice she'll be inheriting."

Michael shook his head. "Prejudice or not, if you hadn't caught it, I doubt I'd have noticed her using her magic until she got in trouble with it. It could have been her in there."

"Thank God it wasn't," Harry said, fervently, resting his forehead against Michael's.

Then he opened his eyes, and smiled. "Now. About that goodbye."

* * *

v

Michael rubbed the Tiger Balm into Harry's shoulders, wincing at the bruises under his fingers.

"I'm not going to like the rest of this story, am I?" he asked, apprehensively. It had been bad enough thus far, what with the deal Harry had made with Marcone, the destruction of four-fifths of the White Court under conditions that gave Lara Raith even more power than she'd had before, the reappearance of Cowl, and the repeated meddling of Lasciel's shadow.

"No you're not," Harry said, groaning as Michael's fingers found a particularly stubborn knot. "The rift closed just before I could get to it, seconds before the bombs were going to blow. Had to kiss Lara freaking Raith to get enough juice to power us out of there."

"What? Harry!" he objected, fingers freezing mid-massage. He'd put up with postcards from Susan, Sergeant Murphy's half-wistful looks, the camouflaging rumors circulating about Harry and Thomas, and the fascination Marcone seemed to have with Harry, but kissing Lara Raith was going just a little too far.

"Said you wouldn't like it," Harry chuckled, sourly. "Don't worry; burned her mouth but good. She was kind of a little bit pissed at me for that." He shifted his arms under him and rolled over on the bed, an apologetic grimace tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Enough to make you rethink your policy about working with me?"

"Enough to make me rethink it, yes. Enough to change it? No," he said firmly.

Just because neither of them had been killed on one of their adventures didn't mean it wouldn't happen. Harry had just come within a hair's breadth of dying, and last year's major conflict with the Red Court had been too close for comfort. Michael had had no way of knowing, while he stood defending the White Council's Warden camp, that Harry had been fighting on another front deep in the NeverNever; the Fae had gone to extreme lengths to get him involved, even kidnapping several innocents from Molly's horror convention, and both of them had nearly perished separately in the effort. There was nothing either one could do about the dangers inherent in their occupations, but at the very least they could minimize the risk of orphaning the children entirely.

Harry's frown turned into something softer as he gazed up at him. "That reminds me. What happened with Lash, there at the end-- I think she's gone, Michael."

Michael blinked at that, then caught his breath in hope. Harry had flat refused to give up his power, and in the years of research since he'd touched Lasciel's coin they hadn't found another way to exorcize her. "You're sure?"

"Pretty much. Going to have to ask Bob to verify, but I haven't _heard_ her since."

Michael stooped down for an impulsive kiss at that; a tremendous weight had just fallen from his shoulders. "I'll call Father Forthill later," he said. "Harry-- I--"

"I know," Harry laughed, then pulled him down again. "I know."

-x-


	2. What Matters Most

**Title**: What Matters Most

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: Property of Jim Butcher & etc., not me. Alas.

**Summary**: _Harry never could give in graciously, even when faced with something he wanted dearly_. Slash; AU; 2400 words.

**Spoilers**: Dresden Files novels, especially Death Masks

**Notes**: Warning for theological murkiness. Sort of a sequel, sort of a parallel to the middle segment of "Five Crosses Michael Carpenter Never Bore". I was rereading Death Masks this weekend, and started wondering what Harry's side of that request-fic would have looked like. So.

* * *

I wish I could tell you that it all started in some grand, romantic fashion, but that wouldn't be the truth. Not that I've ever had much of a Don Juan reputation, but a guy likes to get some respect in that department. Still, I wouldn't trade what I have now for anything. I know exactly how lucky I am.

The first night I spent with Michael Carpenter as anything more than friends was actually not very more-than-friendly at all. He didn't bring me flowers; he didn't take me out to dinner; he didn't serve me alcohol; we didn't even have sex. He simply came over to my apartment, let me lean on his shoulder a bit while my world realigned itself, then dragged me back to his house.

To sleep, he said. It had been a long day, and he was still concerned about my safety.

I was still processing that day when we crossed his threshold. Theirs. Ours, I suppose; I'd spent enough time there bringing food and helping the kids with their schoolwork and crashing on the couch when Michael was out on one of his God-ordained missions that I didn't need permission to enter any more. The faint whisper of power folding in around me as I entered the home tickled along my nerves the same as it had all year; and that unsettled me, though it took me a long, weary moment to realize why.

The denarius, I thought, stunned, as Michael directed my feet toward the stairs. Lasciel's. I'd taken it up; I'd slapped my hand down over it when Nicodemus threw it at Little Harry's feet, so focused on the danger to Michael's youngest that I completely failed to register the danger to myself. So maybe I'd ducked out of the cookout immediately and buried the thing in wet concrete under the summoning ring in my sub-basement, the better to resist it; but I knew I'd already been tainted by it. If I hadn't, wouldn't I have turned it over to the Church already, like Sanya had with his before he'd become a Knight? There was no way to be sure of my own motivations where anything to do with the coin was concerned, but I hadn't been able to bring myself to give it up, either.

I hadn't been willing to take so drastic a step, not while there were still people depending on me, in need of my protection. Even if that meant I'd have to protect some of them from afar from that moment forward. There was a heck of a lot of power packed into each of the Blackened Denarii, if only a way could be found to use it safely.

Good intentions or not, though, I'd figured my new status would make me about as welcome under a divinely protected roof as I'd been the evening I'd walked into Bianca's party in a cheap vampire costume.

Michael had been there with me that day too, come to think of it. Right at my back, exactly the way he was now, though back then his motivations had been a lot clearer.

What was it I told Bianca's minions when they came to provoke us? Right: "What can I say? He's just so big and strong." Well, he is. A stronger man than I'll ever be. A better man, too. On his good days, he glows like a beacon to those of us able to perceive it, as powerful in his faith as I am in my magic. I never feel very much like one of the Wise when we end up on opposite sides of an argument; it had been my stubbornness that had kept me in town after that first encounter with Ursiel, not any conviction that I was right and he was wrong about the dangers.

Okay, so there'd maybe been a little hurt pride in there, too; a tiny bit of a sting that after all the times we'd fought alongside one another, he thought I couldn't handle myself. That he thought I'd leave him-- and the children, and the other Knights, and Murphy and the Alphas and everyone else I cared about-- to face the Denarian threat without me. I cared about him-- about all of them-- too much to let that happen.

Speaking of too much. I roused a little as Michael sat me down on his wide, comfortable bed, pulling at the sleeves of my duster. I focused on his face: more familiar than my own due to the lack of mirrors in my apartment, paler than usual and creased with the aftermath of turbulent, negative emotions. I hadn't seen him look so shattered since the day we'd buried Charity.

"No, don't," I said tiredly, brushing at his arms. "It's all right; I'll take the couch. Linens still in the same place as always?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," he replied, in that matter-of-fact way of his that can make even a resident of theological Switzerland like me believe that God has a Plan, and that Michael is its instrument. "The bed's big enough for both of us."

He cupped the side of my face with his right hand, tilting my head back a little; somewhere in the back of my mind, where my higher functions were struggling to come back online, I realized he was checking to make sure I was really all right. The rest of me, however, was finding it surprisingly hard to concentrate through the warmth, both physical and spiritual, emanating from that callused palm. I instinctively raised my left hand to cover it, and furrowed my brow a little as I stared back at him.

Apart from my brief relationship with Susan, it had been years-- more than a decade-- since I'd experienced any kind of caring touch on a regular basis. It was nearly as much of a draw for me as the sweatier kind of hands-on exploration, and definitely not something Michael normally indulged in with anyone but his family. I would know; as much time as I'd spent around them in the last couple of years, I'd wasted a lot of it in futile daydreams about him. No, he wasn't my usual type; but then, what _is_ usual for a wizard? Unless you're content with an unequal relationship, the pool of people both willing and able to accept, not to mention stand up to, the kind of supernatural havoc that comes with the territory is pretty darned small, and Michael is a standout even in that select group.

Which isn't to say that I don't appreciate the usual attractions of the male of the species on their own merits. It was just my luck that of all the strong-willed, supernaturally educated, eye-catching men I'd ever met, Michael the widowed, devoutly Christian Fist of God was the only one who wasn't either a mentor figure or someone I dared not trust. It's one thing to notice the color of a mob boss's eyes, the amazing musculature of a nearly-naked White Court vampire, or the close cut of a mercenary's suit; another thing entirely to do something about it. Women had proven a marginally less dangerous option.

Not that I'd dated all that many women, either. But I liked to think that I hadn't _entirely_ made a hash of things with Elaine and Susan-- at least not before the inevitable disastrous breakups.

Michael seemed to realize at that point that I wasn't quite following his train of thought, and he smiled at me, a touch of sadness shadowing his eyes. "You mean a great deal to this family, Harry," he said. "To me. And perhaps I haven't made that quite as clear as I should have in the past. When I think about what could have happened-- what _did_ happen--"

He looked down at my hands as he spoke, and I recalled Shiro's death with a pang. Michael's mentor in the Knights of the Cross had given up his life for me, and what had I done with it? Given it straight over to one of their greatest enemies. I knew I had barely begun to understand just how serious the consequences of picking up Lasciel's coin were going to be, and I could still hardly believe that Michael wasn't holding it against me. I had desperately not wanted him to know; his good opinion meant the world to me. When he'd turned up at my door with _Amoracchius_ immediately after I'd spent a grueling ten hours tearing a hole in the floor of my sub-basement to imprison the thing, I'd been convinced that my worst fears were about to come true.

But he'd put the sword down. He'd comforted me. He'd brought me back here. And he was saying.... What _was_ he saying?

He swallowed; I saw the Adam's apple bob in his throat, and then he looked back up at me, that same intensity returning to his gaze that I'd seen when he'd opened his arms to me back in my apartment. It made my heart skitter strangely in my chest; foolish organ that it was. I knew it didn't mean--

"I love you, Harry," he said.

"...Whuh?" I blurted, too startled to manage anything more coherent.

He smiled again at that, and this time it reached his eyes. "I know my timing is poor," he continued, "especially given Susan's recent visit; I know how much you love her."

I swallowed at that, flushing a little at the memory of Susan, wrists secured with the unicorn-hair restraint I kept in the apartment, dark-eyed and moaning with lust in the grip of her blood-hunger. She'd felt, smelled so good as I had tended to her wounds; if it hadn't been for the nagging worry about Michael-- gone to St. Louis with Sanya without so much as calling to tell me first, and me trapped on the inside of my emergency wards where I couldn't get out to help him if he needed me-- I might have given her a rather more thorough farewell than we had planned on. She'd been right about all the reasons we needed to stay apart, but Michael was right, too: I still loved her.

The thing was, I was pretty sure I loved Michael, too.

"I don't expect you to say anything," he continued. "Or even to return my feelings. But Shiro said something to me before everything happened, advice I should have heeded sooner." He paused. "Sometimes, when it's hardest to say, is when it matters the most to say it."

Something in my chest broke a little at the tone in his voice as he said that. I could feel myself choking up; I closed my eyes and turned my cheek further into his palm, trying to regain my equilibrium.

"I didn't think your God approved of that kind of thing," I managed.

"His Word speaks quite strongly against magic also, as you might recall," he said, softly. "But it also says, 'for Love is of God, and everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.'"

I snorted a little at that, and opened my eyes. Michael'd spoken to me a time or two about matters he disapproved of-- speaking with spirits, for example, not to mention sleeping with Susan before making a commitment to her back during the episode with the Nightmare-- but he'd been remarkably pragmatic about my wizardry, in and of itself. And considering that Shiro had been at best, technically a Baptist, and that Sanya, the third Knight of the Cross, was an agnostic socialist-- well, I thought I'd trust the man God actually spoke to rather than a handful of quotes from a sacred document that had been retranslated several times by mortal men with all-too-human agendas.

Still, I never could give in graciously, even when faced with something I wanted dearly. "What about the children?" I asked.

"They already adore you," he replied, stroking my cheek with his thumb. "And I will not hide this from them, as though it is something to be ashamed of."

I adored them, too. And though I didn't think it would be as easy for them to accept as Michael thought-- fourteen-year-old Molly and thirteen-year-old Daniel, especially, remembered their mother very clearly-- the surety in his statement warmed me clear through. Still, that wasn't the only-- or even the largest-- obstacle hanging over our heads. I hated to bring it up again, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't.

"And what about Lasciel?" I continued, softly.

He finally dropped his hand at that, his jaw firming as he turned back to the task of removing my duster. I shifted a little to help as he tugged it off me; the heavy leather garment made a solid thump when he dropped it onto a chair beside the bed.

"I trust you," he said. "I won't pretend not to be troubled by it; but you're a good man, Harry. I know you. And Shiro trusted you enough to leave _Fidelacchius_ with you. We can discuss it further later, but it's your choice what to do with the coin. Though if you ever change...."

I could hear the steel-- and the pain-- reverberating in those last five words, and felt perilously close to breaking out into unmanly tears. "I don't deserve you," I said.

That earned me another smile. Stars and stones, the beauty of this man.

"Get some rest," he told me. "I need to speak with Sanya, but I'll be up soon. We'll talk more in the morning."

I couldn't just let it go at that. I caught his hand as he pulled away, and squeezed it once, sharply. "Michael," I said.

"Yes, Harry?"

I blew out a deep breath, and summoned up all the courage I could spare. "I love you, too."

The look on his face as I said it was enough to buoy me up for the rest of the night; through the (regretfully solo) ablutions before bed, through the dreams that embraced me as I slept, and into the morning, when I woke wrapped in a pair of strong, caring arms.

Maybe some things really aren't meant to go together. Things like oil and water. Orange juice and toothpaste. Wizards and electricity. Me and Susan.

But maybe some things are.

I could definitely get used to this.

-x-


	3. For Those Who Wait

**Title**: For Those Who Wait

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the world belongs to Jim Butcher.

**Summary**: _Anything that could keep me distracted until I could see Michael sounded like a good plan._ 1600 words.

**Spoilers**: Dresden Files novels through Small Favor, though somewhat AU

**Notes**: Slash. Aftermath fic for Small Favor in the Five Crosses 'verse, written during a reread in anticipation of the new book. I couldn't help but wonder how Harry would deal with those events... though somehow the fic ended up being more a reaction fic touching on his relationships with _all_ the Carpenters.

* * *

No hours have ever passed as slowly as the ones I spent waiting for Michael to come off the respirator.

It was a good thing I still had battle-related duties to keep me busy after the doctor finally told us he was going to survive. I'd been so relieved I could hardly form the words to thank the man... but also near-paralytically distressed that I wouldn't be able to be there at Michael's bedside when he woke. I knew he wouldn't be alone with Sanya and Daniel there to watch over him, but that didn't really soothe my need to see him with my own eyes. I don't know what I'd have done if I didn't have Wardens to debrief, a little girl to cuddle, a coin to drop off, and a mob boss to beard in his lair to distract me.

Not that those duties didn't add their own extra weight to my worries. I hadn't liked Luccio's inferences about the consequences that could result from giving a child Archive human attachments, but that didn't mean she was wrong. Just that I couldn't stomach the alternative. I'd been where Ivy was; and more importantly, I had somehow ended up as secondary father to seven little ones of my own. Ivy fell right between Alicia and Amanda in age; I couldn't help but see their smiling faces when I looked at her, and no force on this planet could have stopped me from offering her the same care. And then there was the other bomb Luccio had dropped in that conversation: the one about my wizard's Sight beginning to mature.

I sat in my patchwork car for a long time after Murph drove me over to pick it up, forehead resting on the steering wheel as I flailed over that little revelation. It explained the sense of familiarity I'd felt on the island, sure. But it also explained something else I'd written off _before_ Marcone's kidnapping, something that stuck like a knife in my gut now that I knew what it meant. Stars and Stones. If I'd realized beforehand...

Michael's fairly ripped, but he isn't a polished muscle-bound statue like Sanya, and he's approaching middle age faster than either of us would like to admit. His body's not perfect. His chest hair's more salt than pepper these days- something I've teased him about more than once, cradle robber that I've made of him- and he's got plenty of scars from nearly thirty years of fighting the Good fight. But that night, as I'd run my hands over the strong, solid back and flanks of the best human being I knew, I'd thought I'd felt thickened tissue where there'd been none before. Jagged scars, like those left behind by bullet wounds.

They hadn't been there the next time I'd checked, though, and we'd both been more than a little... distracted... at the time. I'd chalked it up to some kind of misfire in the still damaged nerves of my left hand and put it out of my mind. If I'd known that was foresight rather than imagination, though, could I have prevented him from getting shot at all?

These are the kinds of questions that can drive a man crazy. I might as well have asked myself whether I should have ignored Gard's avid expression and gone on up to the helicopter before Michael as he'd suggested. But if I'd done that, he'd have had to face the Denarians alone in my place, and I would lost him for sure. And if I'd tried to warn him beforehand about the wounds he might take... he'd just have told me he had faith in God's plan, and that he could no more let me go to the island alone than I'd have been willing to let _him_ do the same.

We usually tried not to risk our lives in the same conflict. But in this case... the Denarians had been trying too hard to divide and conquer, what with all Nicodemus' hints about Lasciel's shadow. Michael had had faith in me- though much good it had done him- and we'd ultimately decided we'd better face this particular danger together. I didn't kid myself that I was a better helpmate in general than Charity had been, but I _could_ watch his back against the Nickelheads.

At least this was the last time we'd face that particular problem. When I finally put myself back together enough to head for St. Mary's, Father Forthill assured me that Michael and the children would still rate Heavenly defenses... as long as he stayed out of the fight from then on. Sort of a reward for dedicated service.

And put in that perspective... if I was going to kick myself about ignoring prophetic warnings, there was another, much older one I should've kept in mind. Michael had told me seven years before that he felt God was warning him he'd have to lay down the Sword soon, but apart from the brief period when my faerie godmother had got her hands on it, I'd written that off as just his paranoia talking. _Denial, paging Harry Dresden; come in, Harry_. We were extremely lucky he was still alive at all. I'd seen what had happened to his mentor with my own eyes.

Hell's Bells, I still had Shiro's sword in my keeping. And... now I had Michael's, too. Though I feared that one might mostly be on hold until Daniel was ready.

Unlike Molly, Michael's eldest son hadn't taken well to acquiring another parent after Charity's death, even an ostensibly cool one who slung fireballs and played Arcanos with werewolves. We'd hashed out a truce after awhile, under which I backed him to Michael when he insisted on taking over his mother's forge and he didn't object when the littler ones started calling me Daddy Two instead of Uncle Harry. But at some point after Mavra bulldozed through the Carpenters' lives, he'd decided that his goal was to follow in his father's footsteps, no matter how dangerous it was. From the few words we'd exchanged that evening, Michael's brush with death hadn't changed that at all.

I hoped Michael's Patron had other plans for him. But he was one determined kid, far more aware of consequences and mortality than any seventeen year old should be. I remembered what that was like. And I was proud of him, even if he didn't want me to be. I just hoped we could get him to wait a little longer- until after college, at least- before he took up the fight.

I didn't think I could take being shut out of yet another hospital room, and it would be years before that wasn't the first thing I thought of every time I fought beside a Knight of the Cross. Or either of the Carpenter children in the line of fire- I could hardly stop training Molly, even if Daniel changed his mind. My conversation with Uriel in the hospital's chapel had soothed my anger and grief a little, but not _that_ much.

Maybe that was part of why I was so lenient with Madam Demeter that evening; she knew, and I knew, that she was a viper in the mob boss' nest, but I couldn't say she didn't have reason to be. Marcone might have become what he was as a result of her daughter's sacrifice... but so had she. She blamed him for the destruction of her family. And on a purely cause-and-effect level, she wasn't entirely wrong to do so; he hadn't fired the shot that felled Amanda Beckitt, but he'd been the target. The fact that he'd ultimately made life more livable for a lot of other children as a result of his guilt over the incident didn't make him any less a criminal, nor take away the years she'd spent believing her daughter dead.

I was a little more rational on the subject of our kids than Michael, but only a little. Only a _very_ little. What had happened to Michael- and Ivy- had mashed a lot of those protective buttons, and while I respected Marcone for putting Ivy's safety before his own, this was a case of _and_, not _or_. If I gave either of them a pass, I felt I had to give it to them both.

Dealing with Demeter had been last of my self-assigned tasks, though, besides figuring out what was up with my tingling hand. The hamster wheel of worry in the back of my mind kept chanting Michael's name, over and over, and anything that could keep me distracted until I could see him sounded like a good plan. I sat in the Beetle for another long moment, contemplating whether or not I should drive over to the old apartment and wake Bob up for a look; I'd left my lab there to keep him and the other dangerous ingredients of my art away from the children.

Stars and Stones, the _children_-

A jolt of grief struggled to break through the emotional numbness I'd been clinging to, and I swallowed hard. I'd been selfish. For all my worrying _about_ Michael and the rest of our family, I'd entirely ignored the fact that the younger ones hadn't seen either of us since things got hairy. Charity's mother had brought them back after Murphy called Daniel; they were waiting for me. It was high time I reassured them that their dad was alive and they were still safe and loved.

Whatever Uriel had done to me could wait. I pointed the Beetle toward home.

-x-


End file.
